Fifa Meets USUK
by Spitfyah
Summary: It's a tradition: every year, one of the nations hosts a party at their house for the World Cup Championship games. This year, the duty just so happens to fall upon Alfred and Arthur- both of whom are in the bracket.


It was that glorious, heartbreaking, adrenaline-pumping day: the day in which victors cheered, in which losers cried: the day flags were painted on cheeks of all different color: the day where all the nations fought, competed for dominance- in a living room.

It was _soccer_ season.

This year, the ruthless marathon was to be held in Alfred's house (" _and mine!" Arthur would add_ ). As Alfred avidly raced through Publix, grabbing item after item of junk-food in amounts that, quite frankly, could kill a human, he frantically pulled out his ringing phone with one hand, pushed up his glasses with another, while balancing superfluous piles of Pringles and Junior Mints and salsa and pasta boxes all under his armpits precariously.

"Hola."

Alfred's eyebrows drew together in an expression that would draw strange looks from the average passerby. "Who are you and what have you done with my Arthur Kirkland?"

He heard Arthur snort sarcastically over the phone, and dumped the boxes of food into his cart while Arthur started, "I'm practicing for Antonio, asshat. Did you get the facepaint?"

"Yep." Alfred balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear, pushing the cart into the next isle. "We need milk?"

"When do we not need milk?"

Passing by a free food-sample stand and trying not to look like a desperate, hungry child dragged to the supermarket by his mother, he intentionally drew closer and pretended to just now notice the woman handing out free samples. Accepting the offer of free food with a winning smile, he walked past the stand and into the next isle, explaining with a mouth full of food, "It's because you drink it like it's your lifeblood."

"Did you loiter around a free-food sample stand _again,_ Alfred?"

Swallowing, Alfred rolled his eyes. "It's not loitering if you walk right past it."

"It _is_ loitering when you pass by three times, which you _always_ do."

—

Alfred struggled to open the door, unfathomable amounts of grocery bags hanging around both arms and shoulders, because _two trips are for the weak,_ he reminded himself, and multiple runs back to the car to unload groceries was a waste of time and energy. As he waddled through the doorway, shutting the door behind him with his foot, Alfred exhaustedly called out, "I'm home!"

"May the angels sing of his coming," Arthur jabbed, relaxed on his favorite side of the couch with something that appeared suspiciously like chocolate in hand. He glanced up at Alfred, eyes bright, because as snide as the British came off, it was all merely masked affection. "You got the facepaint?"

"For the ump-teenth time, yes, your Highness." Alfred would have bowed, but instead hobbled into the kitchen, almost throwing all of the grocery bags onto the counter haphazardly.

The first rule of the soccer marathon was always, _always_ paint your country's flag on your body, somewhere. Endearingly, Arthur fancied painting the English flag (" _not the British flag, mind you!" Arthur would always correct_ ) on his cheeks, and always demanded that Alfred paint his in the same fashion. Every year, it was their tradition, and as Arthur waltzed around the corner, casually glancing into each of the bags, Alfred bit his lip, trying to hold back a smirk, as he lifted the paint in his hand into Arthur's view.

Arthur grinned, and grabbing Alfred's wrist, he dragged the American into their bathroom, flicking on the light and enthusiastically opening the paint lids. As Alfred fished for the paintbrushes in the cabinets, Arthur hummed the anthem of his country, then suddenly broke off, declaring, "I love doing this."

There was probably nothing more pleasing in a day than hearing those words, Alfred decided, as he wetted the paintbrushes and dabbed the bristles in dark red, streaking it across his cheek. "I love seeing Francis rip off his shirt when his team scores."

Alfred could almost see the distaste hovering around Arthur like an aura as he retorted, "Heads will roll if that exhibitionist thinks he'll show skin in _my_ house."

Pretty colors mixed into the water as Alfred rinsed his brush off, following with a blue that looked too light for the color of his flag. "You seem fine when I do it," he goaded smugly.

"Because you're you, and I like you," came the honest answer, which made Alfred flush, which was disconcerting because the whole point of that statement was to prod Arthur into babbling embarrassedly, not the other way around. Arthur shot him a contemptuous smirk, as if he knew exactly what he'd accomplished.

—

As Alfred turned the tv on, turning to the sports channel, he watched the sports announcers debate about which team was better and the like. There were only two games to be played, but those decided which team would win the Fifa World Cup- and, with a hint of pride, Alfred taunted, "Guess who's in the championship bracket, Iggs?"

Arthur jabbed Alfred in the gut with his elbow. "Just because I play Germany for third place doesn't mean England didn't do good this year."

There was no debating that, because in an incredible, shocking game, England had pulled off a defeat against Norway, and then Canada, but the chances of England beating Germany, the top team in the world, were slim if not completely remote. "Keep on dreaming, sweetheart."

Francis always, without fail, arrived first. The French tricolor would be painted in artistic swirls against his forehead and his hair would be tied up with ribbons of the same color. But, since France had been eliminated in the Quarter-finals by Germany, Francis was here to support _England,_ of all countries. Arthur glared at him as he walked in, Francis did likewise, and then both started laughing, because Francis's shirt was open, and the English flag was painted across it. Alfred had to snap a picture as Arthur hugged his friend-rival hybrid, because he was sure Francis would never support England again.

Relaxing on the couch, Alfred watched them discuss politics, cooking, and then came a heated argument about aforementioned cooking, interrupted (thank God) by frantic ringing of the doorbell. As hard as it was to move, Alfred dragged himself off the couch to open the door, Arthur at his side. Feliciano and Lovino wore matching red party sunglasses and white shirts, and Feliciano's bore the word "Germany" accented with none other than the German flag. Italy had been knocked out quite early, Alfred recalled, so it would make sense that Feliciano would support his closest friend. (Of course, Lovino would kill if he were spotted supporting Germany.)

The brothers were welcomed in, and as innocent as they looked, Lovino was known for his foul mouth when watching sports and Feliciano tended to fall down the same path. The later hovered around Alfred, asking, "You did bring pasta, yes?"

Arthur answered for him, pointing back at the kitchen, "Help yourself, it's in the cabinet." With a knowing glance back at Alfred that clearly translated, _We'll be out of pasta in the morning,_ Arthur turned around, smacking Francis's hand as he tried to unbutton his shirt, chastising, "Save it for during the game, frog."

And it was just getting started. The German brothers arrived later than usual, but as Gilbert lugged in three large packs of beer, Ludwig explained, "We had to stop at your queer supermarket, and it took almost an hour to prove both of us were not under-age."

Francis laughed his wonderful _("bloody stupid!" Arthur would correct)_ French laugh and tried to help Gilbert with the heavy packs of alcohol. The duty was promptly placed on Alfred, apparently being the strongest out of all of them, and as he carried the 12-pack to the kitchen, the doorbell rang, and everyone knew it was Antonio, because Lovino started cursing his existence.

The Spaniard, never ceasing to be cheerful, walked in and threw his arms around the angry Italian, which only incensed Lovino further because Antonio was there to support Germany, as Feliciano (who was currently boiling water with a straight-faced German) had asked him to, and rubbed his German flag-colored face against Lovino's cheek. Consequently, red, orange, and black streaked across Lovino's face, and screaming bloody murder, the Italian drenched his entire face under the running water of the sink.

Ivan and Yao arrived together, like usual, and both sported Japanese flag shirts (literally just a white shirt with a red dot in the middle): China had been knocked out by the United States in the Quarter Finals, and Russia even earlier by Germany (that had been a 9-0 defeat, which was exactly why Alfred was skeptical about England winning third place in the World Cup). Alfred couldn't help but smirk at Yao, who glared back and marched in, nose held high as he dragged Ivan inside by the wrist.

The warm-ups of the championship game, which would be on first, were starting on TV, and as most of the guests gathered onto the couch, Arthur bolted down the hall and into the bathroom, calling, "I'll be right back!"

Someone knocked timidly, and Alfred knew exactly who was at the door. Making sure everyone knew where he and Arthur sat and that area was _not_ to be sat in, Alfred skidded against the tile with his socks and threw the door open, grinning as he shouted, "Matt! Kiku!"

His brother and his best friend looked on the verge of terrified as Alfred wrapped them into tight hugs, and as soon as he broke away, Kiku took a deep breath, as if that had been too much contact for one year. "Please, Alfred-san. Personal space."

"Won't be much personal space when I beat your ass," Alfred shot back, and Matthew elbowed him. Japan vs America was the game to decide winner of the Fifa World Cup, and Japan had beaten England in the semi-finals (it was absolutely devastating to Arthur, who was sure he'd play America in the Finals), which was surprising and showed how much the team had improved over the year. Canada had been knocked out in the Quarter Finals by England- Matthew had been there, and he'd actually _cried._ It was one of the best days of Alfred's life. And because Alfred had laughed while his brother cried, Matthew was now wearing a shirt that had Queen Elizabeth's face on it and the English flag. Damn you, karma.

A quick head count decided everyone was present aside from one Englishman, who came sprinting out of the bathroom as Feliciano carried out a bowl of pasta from the kitchen. They collided, both yelping as they were sent backwards and the pasta bowl flew up. Gilbert caught the bowl, still immaculate, Ludwig caught the Italian, and Alfred caught Arthur.

And as they all settled down, Alfred noticed the flag painted on Arthur's right cheek was different than the one on his left. Everyone else noticed it, too, and as Arthur grabbed the remote to turn on the captions, Francis, Gilbert, and Antonio dreamily sighed, as if wishing their love interests were as endearing as Arthur was. Alfred possessively pulled Arthur closer to him by the waist, smirking at the others, because for the first time, Arthur had the American flag painted on one cheek and the English on the other.

Before Francis and Arthur could get into another heated debate about why Arthur preferred captions and why Alfred didn't stop him, the game started, and people in the stands at the game were almost going as crazy as the people at Alfred's home were.

Alfred gripped Arthur's arm more than a few times, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kiku squirming on the couch beside Feliciano, politely accepting the pasta on his plate out of fear that he would offend the Italian if he didn't. Ivan and Yao, his fanclub, also intently watched, throwing jabs at the commentators which made Gilbert laugh, and every time someone got close to the goalie, Ivan squeezed the life out of the smaller.

Francis made a comment about how cute the Japanese players looked in their outfits, drawing an irritated snap from Arthur. If either had said anything else, it was drowned out by jubilant screaming as America scored their first goal.

Jumping off the couch, Alfred pumped his fists into the air, did a happy dance, and then ran around the house, screeching obnoxiously, "GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAL!" Kiku threw a pillow at him, sending his glasses across the room, and the neighbors probably called the police. Ivan threw his head back in despair, Yao cursed and kicked the side of the couch, and Lovino threw pasta at Ludwig's face just because he could.

4 American goals and 2 Japanese goals later, the game ended, and America won the Fifa World Cup for the first time since 1999. Kiku didn't look too put out (since he won last year anyway), so Alfred decided to rub it in his face a little more than he would normally. A furious Yao attacked him half way through his smug belittling.

There was a small intermission between games, so some personifications gathered in the kitchen, eating all manner of foods. Alfred intended to join them when a small hand wound around his and pulled him backward. Lips pressed against his as he was pulled down to Arthur's height, and he felt like melting into a puddle right there in the living room.

"Congratulations," Arthur laughed softly against his ear, nipping at the shell.

Alfred did his best to control his voice. "T-thanks, Iggs."

Arthur sauntered past him and into the kitchen, and Alfred was left gawking. How after all these years Arthur still had the talent to disarm him completely, Alfred had no idea.

—

England vs Germany began shortly after. It was more tense and drawn-out than the championship game, because going into halftime, no one had scored. Glancing over at the German party all huddled on the far end of the sectional, Alfred watched Ludwig and Gilbert stiffen when an English striker neared a little too close to their goal.

Arthur was relaxed on the outside, but the little signs given off that only someone close to him would recognize signaled that he was nervous. He shifted more than once, curled his hands into fists, brushed his hair back from his face constantly, and rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs. If anything, it was endearing to understand one's quirks.

Alfred couldn't help but still be skeptical. The Germans were tall, fast, and ridiculously powerful. They controlled possession, they controlled the field-

A shot rocketed toward the English goal. Gilbert raised his hands up, eyes wide, ready to start cheering- but it was blocked by the goalie. Arthur blew out air and Francis mirrored the Englishman. Alfred sighed as Arthur's death grip released from his arm, and he pondered momentarily how two 'enemies' could be so alike.

A few amazing saves later, the game went into overtime, no score on either side. Pride welled in Alfred, that Arthur's team could outlast them this long, and shot a smug look at Ivan, who rolled his eyes.

And then, there was a penalty on the Germans, which meant the English had a penalty kick- a face off between the goalie, the ball, and a single shooter. Arthur bit his lip to contain his excitement, latching onto Francis's arm. Everyone quieted in the room _and_ on the TV. Slowly, the shooter wound up, and kicked.

The ball flew into the net, and simultaneously, Arthur, Francis, Matthew, and Alfred shot up from the couch, screaming like the children they were. Arthur jumped up and down in circles, arms flailing wildly as he screeched in unbridled triumph, Francis ripped open his shirt and proudly sported the English flag, dropping to his knees and pointing dramatically to the ceiling, and Alfred opened the door, shrieking to the entire neighborhood as he ran around the front yard, "GOOOOOOOOOAL!" for the second time that evening.

—

Exhausted perfectly described Alfred and Arthur as their final guests left, plopping onto the coach and sitting in comfortable silence. Until Alfred broke the silence by laughing, "I think this was one of our better days."

"Agreed," Arthur huffed, grinning as he relaxed his cheek against Alfred's shoulder, rubbing the colors of the American flag onto his shirt. Neither could bring themselves to care. "Did... did _I_ actually beat _Germany_?"

"I still can't believe it." With a fond smile, Alfred carded fingers through Arthur's blonde hair. "We should host more often, Mr. Underdog."

Arthur hummed his agreement. His eyelids dropped, and his arms affectionately wound around Alfred's neck, obviously tired. Alfred couldn't bring himself to move them into the bedroom. It was simply too far. Yanking a blanket down from the couch, he wrapped it around himself and Arthur, murmuring, "I love you, eyebrows."

As he drifted to sleep with Arthur curled into his embrace, Alfred decided he loved soccer season.


End file.
